Visitor in Lunacy (19 page)

A period of silence follows; just long enough for me to believe that my ears have been tricked by the constant background noise of the storm. A small, reddish spider travels across the ceiling.

Then something clicks, the sound, I think, of the door at the end of the corridor being opened and closed, someone coming in or going out.

Footsteps. Slow and steady. Coming towards my room.

I put down the book and straighten my waistcoat and tie. Getting to my feet I prepare myself to face whatever or whoever is waiting outside.

٭

It was the summer solstice, the longest day. When I went to my bedroom after a mostly silent supper with my uncle it was still light outside. I could not have slept even if I wanted to, so keyed up was I anticipating the night to come. For most of the day I had confined myself to the disused nursery, pacing back and forth in my stockinged feet, teaching myself how to walk while making as little noise as possible.

I waited for half an hour before retrieving the paring knife I had stolen from the kitchen. A few moments later I lifted the mattress again and put it back where it had been resting for the past three nights. Was I really going to go through with what I had planned? Once the deed was done there would be no undoing it. After a period of stasis - my will to act battling against my doubts and leaving me in a state where I could do nothing but stare at the floor - I made my decision and began to undress.

With my outer clothes draped over the bed's footrest I took the knife out again and inserted the blade's tip into the top of the seam that ran down the side of my leather corset. By working it back and forth for a few minutes I was able to cut the first tight loop of cotton thread before moving down to the next one, then the next. It was an activity that caused me a great deal of discomfort, requiring me to keep my arms raised at an awkward angle and my neck twisted. By the time half of the seam had been unpicked the job became much easier and I was able to pull the material apart using my strength alone. My discomfort was not at an end, though. Foolishly I had imagined that after freeing my torso I would be able to slip the metal waist band off without much effort. In practice it jammed over my hipbones and required me to lie on the floor, rocking from side to side and forcing it down in increments, scraping off my top layer of skin in the process. Squeezing it over my thighs was just as difficult. When I was finally rid of the garment I hid it in the base of my wardrobe. How I would explain all this to Mrs Highsmith and my uncle when washday came around I did not know. My intention was to find steal a needle and thread to repair it myself but I knew this would be difficult. For now, I needed to get dressed and focus on the task at hand. Reasoning that I might need protection if I was about to go into the countryside at nightfall, I slipped the knife into my jacket pocket.

The only way down to the ground floor took me directly past Uncle Patrick's study. While I was no longer young or naïve enough to truly believe wishing for something would make it happen, a part of me still sincerely hoped that simply by willing it I could make it so he had already gone to bed. If I were to be caught I could only imagine the severity of the punishment I would be dealt. Carrying my shoes in one hand I crept onto the landing and saw that the study was still occupied and the door was ajar. How I found the courage to walk by I do not know – I was light-headed and my heart was thumping against my ribs – but I managed to pass without detection and descend the stairs.

I waited until I was outside before I put my shoes on. The sun was in the lower quarter of the sky and the air was cooling. The moment my laces were tied I set off at a run.

Despite my athleticism I was out of breath by the time I came in sight of the row of cottages, less brilliantly white now the end of the day was drawing near. I had run what I reckoned was two and a half miles and set off at far too fast a pace. Bent over with my hands resting on my knees - regulating my breath and wondering whether I would be spotted and sent home – I gathered my strength before starting again, this time at a more maintainable speed.

By the time I was running down the slope which signalled the end of the route the temperature had taken another dip. Soon the light would begin to fade. Pausing, I scanned the scene ahead: the fence stile, the distant bridge, the edge of the woods. There was no sign of Magdalene. I cursed myself for forgetting to bring a watch. There was no way of telling if I was too early or, God forbid, too late. Was she yet to arrive or had she already gone home? Climbing the stile I resolved to wait for as long as was necessary.

This interval gave me time to reflect, which did me no good. Sat on the bridge's low parapet I imagined what might be going on at home. Had Uncle Patrick come to check on me and found me missing? Was he, even now, pulling the torn corset out of my wardrobe and holding it up in front of himself, just as I had on the night he first gave it to me? As my body relaxed my fear increased. Perhaps my uncle would disown me, send me back to Ceylon – or wherever my father was now – as a lost cause. Was it worth it?

Just then I caught sight of a figure walking across the grassy field: Magdalene, singing quietly to herself with the setting sun at her back, wearing the same white dress she wore on the day of the flying ants. Her journey towards me seemed to take an age. Waiting for her on the cold stone I told myself her approach was an image I would carry with me for the rest of my days.

Once she was close enough I dismounted and – unsure how to greet her away from the supervision of adults – performed a deep bow. That she laughed at me and responded with a theatrical curtsy wounded my pride a little, but her smile made it easy to forgive.

She confessed she had worried that I wouldn't come.

“Of course I came.”

“I thought you might hate me.”

“Hate you? No, not at all. Never. Why would I hate you?”

“For getting you into trouble. Because of what I did. Did your uncle punish you?”

“No. In fact he never mentioned it.”

She looks bemused: “My father told me he had forbidden us from seeing each other again.”

“Of course. I meant he hasn't mentioned any other punishment. Sorry, I didn't express myself very well.”

“Well, I'm happy you're here.”

Without discussing further it we set off over the bridge and crossed the path, into the woods.

“How did you get out of the house?” she asked.

“It was easy. I jumped out of my bedroom window. I learned how to land properly when I was in Ceylon so I didn't hurt myself.”

“What will happen if you're found out?”

“I don't care if I'm found out. Uncle Patrick doesn't scare me. He's not my father.”

She ducked under a low hanging branch and I followed. Soon we came across the broad tree close to the steep ravine then, farther on, the ditch where we had discovered the half-eaten hare. Without warning she stopped and kissed me on the lips, before turning away and heading deeper into the woods. That she had her back to me was a relief. Her actions had triggered a physical reaction and I was worried it would be noticed. For the first time I wondered why I had come, and why she asked me.

The foliage was becoming thicker and less easy to negotiate. Branches cracked under our feet; a wood pigeon cooed at intervals. Night was coming. Patting my jacket I checked I was still carrying my knife. Magdalene reached out and took my hand in hers.

Happening across a small clearing we halted again. This time she did not kiss me but stared wide-eyed at something ahead.

“What's wrong?”

In the dying light, in a patch of brambles and half shrouded by mist, stood a man covered from head to toe in dirt. His suit was torn and there were scratches on his hands and face. Lifting his head he stared directly at us and, for a moment, I thought it might be my father. Magdalene panicked and turned on her heels, darting back amongst the trees. I looked again. Now it seemed there was no man at all, only shadows, twigs and leaves. Could it have been an optical illusion? Too unsettled to find out I ran after my companion.

She was more adept at moving through the woodland than I expected and had soon gained a substantial lead. I called for her to slow down but she paid no heed, her dress hitched up to her thighs as she pushed through the branches. It was not long before I lost sight of her completely. The daylight was fading fast. Knowing it was no good to keep up the chase I stopped and called again, all the time expecting to feel the hand of the wild man falling heavily on my shoulder. A reply came in the form of a crash beyond a fallen tree up ahead. Preying it was not the sound of a pursuer I set off in its direction.

After I vaulted the trunk the ground seemed to give way beneath my feet. Mercifully I was able to catch hold of a sturdy branch that stuck out to my side and stop myself from tumbling forward. I found myself at the edge of the deep ravine, overlooking the bed of ivy-clustered rocks below. Some way down and to the left, in a spot that was now only just visible, I caught sight of an unnatural white shape: Magdalene, her limbs oddly splayed and her head hanging back. She must have lost her footing and fallen.

Everything was silent. There was no doubt now I would be found out by my uncle. Magdalene would return home filthy and injured and be forced to confess. Tightening my hand around the damp bark I saw only one option open to me.

Even as I fled I was ashamed. Giving little thought to the direction in which I was headed I dumbly contemplated the scale of the betrayal I was committing. I was abandoning my friend, leaving her alone and exposed, defenceless against an attack. But however strong my feelings of guilt they could not combat the compulsion to run. Finding an unfamiliar dirt track I followed it in hope it might lead me to the bridge. Instead I emerged onto an elevated road from where I could see the red pillar box. This time I was able to sprint the rest of the way home without stopping.

٭

Of course, I had known she might be dead. In the woods I was unable to admit the possibility to myself but back at home, lying in bed, it was all I could think of: her broken body on the rocks, rain water filling her nostrils and her mouth. Over and over I told myself I was overreacting - that she had probably struggled to her feet and made it home to Oscar, furious with me but alive at least – but try as I might, I did not believe it.

My corset was where I left it, my absence was undiscovered. The storm arrived with the dawn and went on until breakfast, when I heard the clicking of my uncle's cane as he tackled the stairs. In the dining room I methodically consumed everything on my plate, despite my nausea. If Patrick noticed my washed out pallor and my restrained fidgeting he made no mention of it, preferring instead to confidently impart more wisdom from his book on boy's health. After we had eaten I declared I was going into the garden to read and he shuffled away to his office.

I made my escape over the hedge behind the oak tree where I had buried Magdalene's letter, then rounded the house through the neighbouring fields. I travelled to the woods at a walking pace, telling myself that there was nothing to be concerned about and therefore no need to hurry. In truth I was delaying my arrival, scared of what I would find.

When I reached the bridge my shoes were soaked from crossing the field. The river was swollen and moving fast, farther up the bank than I had ever seen it before. I entered the wood at the usual spot and retraced our steps. Locating the fallen tree was easier than I imagined, taking only a matter of minutes. Before looking into the ravine I hesitated and considered turning back. Might it be better not to know the truth? Don't be so childish, I told myself. She won't be there. She will have gone home.

But she was there. Her sodden dress clung tight to her body, her spine arched over the sharp rocks. One leg was twisted back on itself. The blood had gone from her, leaving her skin glistening and silvery like the wings of a moth. Feeding at her throat was a wild dog with patchy fur and prominent ribs, its snout pressed deep under her chin. All around heavy drops of rain water were falling from the trees, striking the blanket of leaves with a popping sound, like finger snaps or the clucking of a tongue. Released by the storm the rich stench of rotting vegetation filled the air.

Sensing my presence the dog turned its dark eyes towards me and bristled before pelting up the side of the ravine and away into the bushes. When I was sure it had gone I found a place where I could climb down, slipping once and dirtying my coat at the elbows. Having no means to dig a grave I spent the next few hours searching for loose rocks and clambering around the side of the ravine to collect heavy branches, my clothes growing steadily dirtier as I did so. Each time I moved away from the corpse a sparrow fluttered down to peck around the edges of the dress, flying away again when I returned. Unable to look any longer at Magdalene's lifeless face I covered it first, placing pebbles over her eyes and the blade of a fern across her throat.

Only when the body was completely concealed did I begin the long journey back to my uncle's house. The snapping sound of the rainwater striking the undergrowth echoed in my ears; the ripe smell of the vegetation clung to my filthy clothes, stuck to my skin, so that I thought I might never be able to wash it away.

….
VAN Helsing
dips his handkerchief into the carafe and wrings out the excess water before gently running it over Renfield's bruised and tender face. Seward crouches at his patient's side while Morris leans against the wall and pulls at the side of his moustache, tired and becoming bored. Godalming, in his greatcoat and nightgown, observes from the chair. It is raining hard.

“When he came tonight I was ready for him,” says the patient. “I saw the mist stealing in and I grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength and as I knew I was a madman, at times anyhow, I resolved to use my power. And he felt it too, for he had to come out of the mist and take human form. I held tight and I thought I was going to win till I saw his eyes. They burned into me, and my strength became like water. He slipped through it, and when I tried to cling to him he raised me up and flung me down.”